Current mood:	accomplished
Current music:	John Mayer - No Such Thing

Avocados and Pears and Slytherin Sweaters (H/D, 1/1)
One-shot, COMPLETE. H/D, explicit sex. Summary: In which Draco discovers the Real World.

(Author's Note, 10/12 - THANK YOU to everyone who's read, enjoyed and recced - and please feel free to friend me if you wish!)

UPDATE, 6/23/2007: There's a sequel, now. Bagels and Barbecues and Strawberry Ice Cream.



Avocados and Pears and Slytherin Sweaters
by ms_semicolon
10 October 2006



No one had ever taught him how to balance a checkbook. No one had ever taught him how to select pears at the market, or how to peel an avocado. The education of a pureblood wizard had left him remarkably ill-equipped to deal with the Real World.

For these reasons, among others, he was glad to have Granger around: she was still a bossy know-it-all, as she'd been at Hogwarts, but at least she'd been able to teach him how to make the numbers in his ledger match, and read a rapid transit map, and how to work the coffeemaker.

She sat across from him at the table now, absorbed in her study of one of their textbooks: Computing For Wizards, their first class on Monday morning. Well, his first class. Granger was taking a double course-load, and why would that be surprising? studying things like English Literature and Philosophy in addition to the standard advanced-wizardry and how-to-cope-with-the-Muggle-world classes that the rest of them were taking. She left for school at seven in the morning and often didn't get home until seven at night, and more than once he'd found her asleep in the shabby old recliner in the living room, schoolbooks askew on her lap.

He always closed her books neatly and put them back in her bookbag, and covered her with the old throw quilt, when he found her that way. It seemed a polite thing to do for one's housemate.

Draco returned his attention to his laptop, studied the neat columns of numbers in the spreadsheet. Moved the mouse to highlight the Outstanding column, clicked to sum the numbers. Added that sum to the bottom-line total, clicked on another window to study the balance displayed on the First Wizarding Bank of America's online banking site. The numbers matched. Pleased with himself, he reached over to the plate on his right and snagged a sliver of avocado, chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. He'd have to indulge in less take-out sushi next week, if he wanted to keep to his self-imposed budget. That meant cooking - and he was really only good at heating up frozen dinners. Damn.

The back door opened, the screen door slammed. "Hey," said the Weasel, stomping in and slinging his knapsack onto the long dining table. He set down a large paper sack next to it, ran one hand through his long wind-tousled hair.

From the paper bag curled a delicious, enticing aroma. "You'd better have brought enough for all of us," Draco said.

"I've eaten," Granger said absently, sparing enough attention from her study to smile up at the Weasel as he scritched her bushy head in an affectionate gesture.

"You'd better have brought enough for me," Draco amended.

"Salmon choo-chee curry, yeah?" The Weasel nudged the bag over to him. "And Pad Thai for Harry, if he wants it."

"Salmon choo-chee... you went THERE?" Draco abandoned his laptop and his plate of sliced avocado immediately. "No power on earth will save you from my wrath if you didn't get me some of their spicy basil rolls."

"Yeah, yeah, great and terrible wrath, right," said the Weasel, unimpressed. "Basil rolls and mango with sticky rice, happy now?"

"Blissfully," said Draco, digging into the bag.

Footsteps on the stairs, descending. "'lo," said Potter, yawning and scratching at his chest. He was wearing a pair of ragged sweatpants so long they had to have been the Weasel's, and a green SLYTHERINS RULE shirt he'd nicked from Draco - oh, excuse me, gotten mixed into his laundry by mistake, a convenient excuse. As always, Draco wondered at and was exasperated by Potter's habit of swiping other people's clothes. "'S Thai?"

"Yeah, help yourself," said the Weasel, and Draco - having retrieved his own food from the bag - got up to go make a pot of coffee for Potter, who would be utterly unintelligible until he'd downed at least a cup. The man simply couldn't be trusted to make it himself; he'd already broken two carafes.

The Weasel dug the container of Pad Thai out of the bag, placed it before Potter at his usual seat at the table; and Potter stared at it as if baffled until the Weasel presented him with a plastic fork, which seemed to snap him out of his stupor. "Oh. Thanks, Ron," he said blurrily to his friend, who laughed and thumped him on the back.

Draco set the coffeemaker going, placed Potter's mug on the counter, ladled three spoonsful of sugar into it, retrieved the cream from the refrigerator and left it next to the mug. With everything laid out for him, Potter could just barely be trusted to make his own coffee and get it to the table without spilling; and his own curry was getting cold, and that wouldn't do. Of all the takeaway that they, as college students, thrived upon, this Thai restaurant was by far his favorite.

"Hey, Malfoy," the Weasel said. "I was wondering..."

"Knew there was a string attached. What?"

The Weasel's lips twitched into a rueful smile. "Advanced Transfig test tomorrow. Mind if I borrow your notes?"

Draco took another bite of his food, indicating his assent with a wave of his hand. "Backpack," he said around a mouthful of salmon and rice, and the Weasel nodded and went to get it.

From the kitchen came the dying gurgle of the coffeemaker finishing its brew cycle. Potter blinked - he'd been on the verge of falling asleep in his noodles - pried himself wearily out of his chair, and stumbled into the kitchen to fix his cup. Of all of them, he was taking the fewest classes, mostly computer classes, only barely enough course-hours to keep him eligible for varsity Quidditch, and spent his time locked into his room hunched over a keyboard doing incomprehensible things; he kept odd hours, and was always waking up when other people were going to sleep and vice versa, but his housemates were well used to that by now.

It was all very much like the long months of the war, and being holed up at Number Twelve Grimmauld again, except that this time the house was a warm and welcoming place, if shabby and run-down from legions of college students having rented it before them. And, you know, that little matter of being in the States. England was a terrible place to try to live a normal life, what with being War Heroes And Saviors Of The Wizarding World and all. That was why they'd decided, one by one, to come here: Granger first, lured by scholarship offers and the opportunity to study; then the Weasel, lured by Granger; then Potter, because everyone else was doing it; and finally Draco, because what the hell. There had been expressions of startlement and dire pronouncements of impending doom, mostly by people who'd known them during their Hogwarts years and well remembered the years of bitter rivalry, but... there had been those long months at Number Twelve Grimmauld, working and living together under extreme duress, and those had made all the difference.

And now Draco knew how to balance his own accounts, and how to slice an avocado and operate a coffeemaker, and the locations and numbers of thirteen excellent takeaway places, and how to operate a telephone, and a computer, and all sorts of things that had never exactly been on the curriculum of A Proper Malfoy Education, but were certainly handy now.

"I owe you for dinner?" he asked the Weasel, who was leafing through Draco's notebook.

The Weasel waved him off. "You bought pizza last night."

"Thai is more expensive than pizza," Draco pointed out.

Another languid wave of a freckled arm. "Your notes, mate. Leave it," and Draco let it drop. If the Weasel wanted to be generous with the small stash of cash awarded by the Ministry to each of the Order's survivors 'in reward for extraordinary service to the Wizarding world', that was his say-so. And it was true that the Weasel took no small pleasure in his newfound ability to be generous with money. Unlike Draco, who as the last survivor of the Malfoy line held in his possession all the money he could ever possibly need - and was challenging himself to live within the means of an average college student. Well, maybe not quite the average college student - he did have *standards* - but a far more moderate level of expense than he easily could have incurred.

His cellphone rang, and he abandoned his food to answer it. Alioth, of course, needing their Mainstream Assimilation homework again; and Draco rattled off the page numbers and exercises swiftly. Beside him, Potter continued to make inroads into his Pad Thai, looking more alert now that the caffeine was working its way into his system, and rattling off nonsense to the Weasel about the computer game they both liked to play - "...and then the priest died, and I thought we were going to wipe, but the hunter disengaged and used his goblin jumper cables to res her just as Van Cleef summoned another set of guards, and we were able to finish them off after all. And then Van Cleef dropped the Cape of the Brotherhood, and I rolled on it and won! Boy, was the hunter pissed!" Potter related, with some relish.

"Gonna get a rep as a ninja looter, mate," the Weasel admonished him, and Potter shrugged, not looking the least bit concerned.

"Honestly," said Granger, "as if you hadn't anything better to do with your time. What about homework?"

"Did it already," said Potter, still unconcerned, "and no class till Friday."

"Well, if you'd taken on a proper courseload..." began Granger, then fell silent. She'd done a great deal of haranguing at the beginning of term, about how Potter wasn't living up to his potential, until the night that Potter had thrown a giant fit in response, complete with uncontrolled magic shattering every glass in the cupboard. He'd stormed up to his room, and Hermione had followed; three quarters of an hour later, she'd come back downstairs, eyes red-rimmed and looking very sorrowful. Nobody had touched the subject since.

All in all, Potter was a good housemate; but he did have his moods.

"I haven't even completed our Computing homework yet," she changed the subject deftly, "how could you have finished it already?" sounding just a bit annoyed, because Potter's grades in the computer courses were better than hers, and she couldn't seem to bring herself to forgive him for it.

"Easy peasy," Potter said, and grinned. "Want me to help you?"

Granger's mouth twitched. "Yes, please," she said, looking very severe, obviously despising needing the assistance. Beside her, the Weasel snickered, very very softly.

After dinner was done, Granger went to Potter's room, so they could use his computer for the assignment - Draco only hoped that Potter kept his pornography secreted well away from his classwork; he'd seen some of Potter's porn, and had no doubt that Granger would pitch a wobbly if she knew - and the Weasel took over the recliner to do his homework. Draco took his books upstairs, to his room, to do his own work there. It wasn't much, his room, barely the size of the bathroom he'd had to himself at the Manor... but it was his own. He'd decorated it in classic college-student chic, with posters of bands on the walls - Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, the Weird Sisters - and a giant squashy beanbag chair facing the television. It was into that chair that he collapsed, letting the day finally catch up to him for a few moments. Finally, he flicked on the stereo with a wave of his wand, and began studying.

It was only when he heard the sounds of footsteps in the hall - the Weasel's, clomping upstairs, and Granger's lighter step heading for her own room - that he realized how late it had gotten. He was tempted to study a little longer - he had a quiz tomorrow - but knew from experience that extra sleep would stand him in better stead for the test than re-reviewing material he already knew quite well. He pried himself out of the beanbag and put his books away in his bag, knocked on the door of the bathroom he shared with Potter (sometimes Potter forgot to lock both doors when he was in there) and went through his evening ablutions quickly, then changed into the silken pajama trousers he favored for sleeping and slipped into bed.

The music (Dave Matthews) was soothing, and he was just dropping off, when a hesitant knock came from the connecting bathroom door. He rolled over to face it as the door creaked open slightly, and Potter's face peeped through the crack. "All right?" Potter said softly.

In response, Draco patted the empty half of his double bed; and Potter came in, glasses-less but still clad in the same clothes he'd worn earlier. "I want that shirt back," Draco said, as Potter pulled back the covers and slid in beside him.

"Okay," said Potter, plumping up the pillow under his head and settling in.

Draco sighed, knowing that he'd have to steal the shirt back if he ever wanted to reclaim it. "Why?" he wondered quietly.

"Why what?" Potter was already half asleep, the bastard.

"Why everything. Why do you steal my clothes, and why do you always want to sleep in my bed, and..." Draco stopped, because Potter had shut his eyes, and his breathing had slowed, and it was obvious that he'd fallen asleep, just that quickly. "Damn it," he muttered, rolled over, and closed his own eyes.

Sleep was slow in coming, as usual. There was that tendency for the horrors to return, in the darkness of night: the green glow of the Killing Curse, the grisly remains of those who'd died more slowly, under torture. But on the other side of the bed, Potter was breathing, and the sound of his respiration was a soft comfort, sure as the press of teddy-bear fur against the clutching arms of a frightened child. And maybe it was that simple: maybe all of Potter's little annoying mannerisms were just his own way of seeking comfort.

And Draco had to admit, the Slytherin green shirt looked better with Potter's eyes than it had ever looked on himself.

With a rueful smile on his face, he finally fell asleep.

* * * * * * *

It was an old house, and the kitchen was tiny, and there was never room enough for all their food in it. The Weasel did the household shopping, clipping coupons and comparing sales coupons with a razor eye for every pinchable penny, but they were all prone to bringing home bags of whatever food might suit their fancy at the moment. And the Weasel liked white bread, and Granger liked wheat bread, and Potter liked Italian bread, and he himself favored French bread, and then there was that loaf of challah that had looked so good on display at the baker's, and the loaf of rye that had been on sale at half-price; and so there were no less than six loaves of bread occupying counter space alongside Draco's avocados and pears and Granger's boxes of instant oatmeal and Weasley's bag of apples, and there was no place left to set down and fill a coffee mug at all.

And his coffee creamer was all the way at the back, so that he had to unpack virtually the entire fridge to reach it. In retaliation, he buried Weasley's beer behind the lot.

Saturdays were his favorite time of all. No alarm waking him at an abominable hour, no homework (he'd save it till Sunday, and enjoy his day off), nothing but a perfect day of laziness. Granger would clip items from the local papers about interesting goings-on, and usually there was something interesting to do - a trip to a zoo or a botanical garden or a museum with an interesting exhibit or a carnival in some parking lot somewhere - or else maybe a night out at a club or bar. Or, sometimes, just a day of lying around the house doing nothing more challenging than watching telly or listening to music, drinking beer or something stronger with the Weasel and Potter (Granger preferred sweet liqueurs or laughably low-alcohol wines) or grilling something-or-another on their little barbecue in the backyard. The rest of the week might be hectic and filled with past-due schoolwork, but Saturdays, by mutual agreement between all the housemates - even workaholic Granger - were simply and purely for enjoying.

As he was munching a slice of toasted challah spread with imported Danish butter and currant honey, the Weasel came down for breakfast, Granger in tow, both of them wrapped in their respective bathrobes and bearing the distinctive morning-after glow that Draco remembered quite well from his days in the den of debauchery that was the Slytherin dungeon. They'd tried being boyfriend and girlfriend, and that had been an unmitigated disaster, but apparently friends-with-benefits was working quite well for them. Draco was well aware that Potter's ever-since-wartime habit of climbing into his bed had led them to the conclusion that the same was true in reverse; he'd tried denying it, but had mostly given up on that effort, since it didn't seem to matter to either Granger or the Weasel in any case.

"Morning," said the Weasel, brushing damp, just-showered tendrils of hair from his face. "Eat lightly, mate, it's the Greek Festival today."

Draco swallowed the last mouthful of his bread, wiping his fingers on his paper serviette. He'd forgotten. "When are we going?"

"As soon as Harry wakes up," the Weasel said. "I went to wake him, but he's not in his room," looking absolutely and positively innocent.

"We're not," Draco began, from pure reflex, then abandoned the sentence and sighed. Shoving himself back from the table, he got up and went into the kitchen, to begin setting up Potter's coffee.

When he opened the door to his room, the scene that greeted him was more or less the usual; Potter, sprawled across the bed into the space Draco had vacated, clinging to Draco's pillow and snoring softly into it. Draco knelt on the bed and reached out to shake his shoulder lightly. "Potter. Get up."

"Whumphf," Potter protested faintly, burrowing deeper into Draco's pillow.

"Don't drool on my things," Draco said tiredly, shaking the shoulder again. "Up, Potter."

"Mrmph," said Potter, and pushed himself into a sitting position, blinking owlishly at Draco.

Draco handed him the glasses he'd retrieved from Potter's room before making the foray into his own, and Potter shoved them into place on his own face with the ease of long practice. "There's coffee waiting for you downstairs," Draco mentioned, knowing that only one of every three words was penetrating into Potter's sleep-fogged brain, knowing that 'coffee' was one of the words that would make it. "And then we're going to the Greek Festival."

"Mmph." Potter considered that sleepily. "Fest'val?"

"Greek Festival," Draco repeated. "Baklava. Spanakopita. Pastitsio. Souvlaki. Retsina. Ouzo."

"Meh?" Potter stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language, which, come to think of it, Draco realized, he was.

"Food," Draco clarified. "And sweets. Lots of lots of sweets. And liquor."

Potter thought that over. "Coffee first?" he asked forlornly.

"Coffee downstairs," Draco said, thinking it advisable to break it down into the smallest possible terms. "Shower first."

Potter yawned, widely enough to split his face in two. "A'right," he said, and let Draco tug at him until he was out of bed, swaying on his feet. Once he was out of bed, Draco knew, gravity would do its job and keep him there. He could see the dawning realization of physical need make its way across Potter's face. "Gotta pee," said Potter, stumbling toward the bathroom.

Draco watched him go, and waited until the bathroom door had closed to snicker softly.

* * * * * * *

The autumn air was cool and crisp, ruffling Draco's hair and penetrating beneath his denim jacket to chill him. Potter, wearing Draco's old Quidditch sweater ("I found it. In my stuff. You don't mind, do you?") seemed undisturbed. Granger and the Weasel had gone off on their own - Hermione wanted to see the frescos on the walls of the Greek Orthodox church hosting the festival, and the Weasel hadn't seemed to mind tagging along - so now Draco had his very own tagalong, munching on a stick of souvlaki held in one hand and sipping from a glass of wine in the other.

Draco fancied a lamb sandwich with tzaziki sauce, and found his way to the line. Potter settled in companionably beside him. "This is good," he said happily, around a mouthful of souvlaki. "Glad you got me out of bed for it."

"And of course, pleasing you is my life's goal," Draco retorted. To his mild dismay, it came out sounding more fond than sarcastic.

Potter beamed at him, and Draco idly wondered when Potter's goofy grins had stopped annoying him and started warming him from the inside.

"What's baklava?" Potter asked him.

"Phyllo dough with walnuts and honey sauce," Draco responded. Seeing Potter's confused look, he clarified, "It's a sweet."

"Oh, good. I like sweets. Are we getting baklava next?"

"After I have my sandwich. And when Granger and the Weasel get back."

Potter frowned. "We have names, you know."

"Sure you do. Potter, Granger, and the Weasel."

"Harry," said Potter, gently, "Hermione, and Ron."

"That's what I said," Draco said smugly. "Potter, Granger, and the Weasel."

Potter blew out an exasperated breath. "You could at least call me Harry."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Nice answer."

"Nice question."

Another exasperated exhalation. Draco's smug grin widened.

"How would you like it if I still called you Malfoy?" Harry said finally, after having been quiet so long that Draco thought he'd forgotten the subject.

Draco began to reply, then stopped, considering it. Harry's abandonment of his surname in favor of his given name had been the most tangible signal of a change in their relationship, from adversarial to something resembling friendship. Much as he would have liked to give a flip answer to Harry's question, somehow, he couldn't. It mattered to him, he realized, that Harry called him Draco.

He supposed that it was only fair that it matter as much to Harry, in reverse.

"All right," Draco said eventually. "Harry."

Potter beamed at him.

"And Granger, and the Weasel," Draco added.

Harry laughed then, and shoved Draco companionably on his shoulder.

Then they were at the front of the line, and Harry decided that he wanted a lamb sandwich, too.

They took their sandwiches and fresh glasses of wine to a grassy spot beneath a weeping willow tree. On the stage in the distance was a Greek band and a bunch of folk dancers. It was all very quaint, Draco felt, not with condescension but instead a sort of slow warmth. The crisp scent of the autumn leaves on the air mingled with the rich aroma of roasted lamb and the cool taste of the cucumber-dill tzaziki sauce in his mouth.

"Life's gotten good, hasn't it?" Harry asked him, apropos of nothing.

Draco thought about it, and inwardly agreed.

He picked up his plastic cup of wine and touched it to Harry's lightly, in a silent toast - and there, again, was that beaming smile that somehow warmed him all through.

* * * * * * *

They took the number 138 bus to the number 152 bus and walked the five blocks home, laden with boxes of baklava and other sweets. Once inside, Draco shoved his own box of assorted goodies into the fridge, then went outside again. The crisp night air beckoned to him, even as he shivered; and he settled down on the wooden swing, looking out at the train tracks that passed by just beyond their backyard, now clear and silent.

He heard the rattle-creak of the door opening again, felt footsteps making their way across the wooden deck, and then Harry settled into the seat beside him. With a push of his foot, Draco set the swing to moving, a slow rocking motion. Harry's foot moved in time with his own, keeping it going.

There had been times during the war, shut into Number Twelve Grimmaud, that Draco had despaired of ever being outdoors again, except for the brief terrifying times of violence and death. He'd smelled the air taut with scorched spells and coppery with shed blood and wondered if crisp autumn evenings were nothing more than a particularly cruel dream. Now... now it seemed as though the war had been a dream, and the gentle peace of the night were the only reality.

Harry was warm and solid beside him, quiet and still, and Draco wondered what he was thinking of.

Distantly, a train whistle sounded, along with a susurrant rumbling along the track. The rumbling grew louder, and louder still, a faint glow showing against the treeline, and then it was upon them: dazzling brightness of the train's light, the screech and thunder of its wheels against the track, the mournful melody of its whistle dopplering past. Draco watched the train go by, and without thinking, reached out and took Harry's hand in his own; Harry had always loved the trains, it was the thing he'd loved best about this ramshackle student rental, ever since they'd first moved in, and watching the train with him was a bit like sharing that joy, making it his own.

Harry shifted against his side, and then Draco felt the soft warmth of breath against his face, the gentle press of lips against his cheek.

It should have surprised him, he knew; but in that moment it seemed as though they'd been moving toward this moment for years, as inexorably as the train's progress down the track.

"All right?" said Harry into his ear, a low whisper that sounded clearly despite the thunderous roar of the train speeding past.

Draco thought about it for a moment, only a moment, then moved slightly to settle his weight against Harry. It felt comfortable, as if he'd always belonged there.

Harry's arm slipped around his shoulders as the last train car sped past, as the rumble moved past them and away, holding Draco close against him, and Draco thought he could feel him smiling.

* * * * * * *

They ate baklava together at the dining room table, licking the stickiness of the honey from their fingers and sipping from tall glasses of milk. Granger and the Weasel were watching some movie in the living room, probably snogging, Draco thought, and found himself looking at the fullness of Harry's lower lip and wondering if Harry would kiss him again.

There was a sparkle in the other man's eyes, especially when he looked at Draco, that made Draco think that he probably would.

It should have been awkward, Draco thought, should have been fraught with tension, but the only moment of unsettled strangeness came when he put his plate in the sink and announced, "Well, I'm off to bed," feeling his voice go louder and more clipped than it usually sounded; and Harry looked up at him and gave him a twitchy sort of smile that didn't really say much of anything at all.

He went upstairs, showered, dried his hair, put on soft music on the stereo, dimmed the lights to a single lamp, pulled a book from the shelf and tried to read, minute after slow minute slipping by, until it began to seem as if Harry wouldn't be coming to join him after all.

But then there was a faint knock on the door, and Draco felt his heart start pounding in his chest.

The door opened, and Harry's tousled head peeked in. "All right?"

Draco patted the bed beside himself, their old ritual, trying to ignore the butterflies suddenly setting up house in his chest.

Harry came in shyly, looking hesitant. Sat down gingerly on the bed, as if afraid he might break it. "What are you reading?"

He had to look at the book to be sure; he'd been not so much reading as staring unseeingly at the pages. "The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress, by Heinlein."

"Is it good?"

"I like it." Draco set the book aside without bothering to save his place, as he'd read it before.

As he was turning back, he felt that whisper-soft brush of lips against his face again; and so he turned some more, into the kiss, pressing his own lips against Harry's for the first time. It felt strange, and yet not, half-remembered familiarity as if from a dream, as if he'd been waiting for this forever and simply hadn't known. Just the lightest touch, breathing each other's breath; and he opened his eyes to see Harry gazing at him wide-eyed.

"All right?" he murmured, and Harry nodded.

He leaned forward to kiss Harry again, and Harry met him halfway, lips parting, and Draco settled into the kiss as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Soft, so soft, and so warm, and his arms moved to encircle Harry of their own accord, and Harry reached back for him, and it felt right as nothing before ever had, exquisite and inevitable. Not the quick just-for-fun liaisons with fellow students, not even the rather intensely good threesome with Alioth and her boyfriend, just a simple kiss and yet it was pure and sweet and perfect, and Draco wondered: how is it that we haven't ever thought to do this before? And yet it also seemed perfectly right that they hadn't, that they'd come to this moment in the fullness of time, just when the moment was right for it to happen.

"You taste like honey," Harry whispered, and Draco smiled.

Kissing and kissing and kissing, tongues meeting and mingling, exploring each other's mouths, it was perhaps the most undemanding snog session Draco had ever experienced. Yet he was perfectly content to simply kiss Harry, kiss him and be kissed. He could feel the pleasure coiling deep in his groin, a slow-swelling heat, but there was no urgency to it, only the sweetness of the kisses spreading through him.

The song on the stereo ended; another began. Harry broke away awkwardly, fumbled his glasses off his face and set them down on the nightstand. Draco took the opportunity to stretch out on the bed; when Harry turned back to him, he extended his arms, and Harry fell willingly into his embrace. Kissed him again, another long slow melting kiss. But now their bodies were pressed close, and even through their clothes it was incredibly arousing to feel Harry against him that way. Harry nuzzled him, the odd roughness of stubble against his cheek as he tucked his head in to kiss Draco's neck, and Draco couldn't repress a gasp at the feel of it - he was sensitive there, and Harry quickly took advantage of that fact, nibbling and sucking.

For long slow minutes it was like that, just kissing and nuzzling and the weight of Harry's body settled amiably atop his own. Tentatively, Draco slid his hands down and up and under the bottom of the Quidditch sweater, encountering warm soft skin, and Harry yelped - his hands were cold - then grinned down at him, eyes unfocused without the glasses and looking slightly manic for it, and kissed him again.

The sweater came off easily; Harry yielded to his gentle tugging, helping him along. His own t-shirt followed. Now there was more warmth, skin against skin, and...

...a soft but insistent knock on the door. "Hey, mate," came the Weasel's voice through the door, muffled but clearly audible, "can I ask you something about the Transfig homework?"

Utterly annoyed, Draco sat up in bed, pushing Harry aside, and yelled at the closed door, completely without thinking, "Not now, you idiot, we're snogging!"

There was a pause, just long enough for Draco to realize what he had said; and then the Weasel's voice again. "Thought you said you two didn't do that?"

Frustrated and more than a little pissed off at himself, Draco grabbed the closest thing at hand - his book, on the nightstand - and threw it at the door with unnecessary force.

The Weasel laughed, and Draco heard his footsteps clomping off down the hall, presumably to ask Granger about their homework, or to get in some snogging time of his own, Draco didn't much care which.

He turned back to Harry, who was splayed on his back on the bed beside him, laughing. For the first time, it occurred to Draco how nice Harry looked when he laughed, how pleasant his face was with the corners of his eyes and mouth all crinkled with glee. "Stop that this instant," Draco directed him anyway, and leaned over him to silence him with a kiss.

Harry pulled him down and held him close, and Draco took advantage of the position to grind his hips against Harry's, feeling the other's growing hardness rubbing against his own burgeoning arousal. A small desperate sound, a faint whimper, and Harry arched up to meet him, clutching him all the more fiercely.

But there was all the time in the world for this, for slow deep kisses and long caresses and sharp thrusting movements that made them both tremble and gasp, for the pleasure to build and build until Draco felt as though the heat would overwhelm him. Only then, when he was as hard as he'd ever been in his life, did he reach down between them; and Harry cried out softly as Draco's hand cupped and squeezed.

Jeans and sweatpants soon lay in a tangled pile on the floor atop their shirts, and Draco sat back on his heels between Harry's legs to survey the sight before him. Harry was fit, leanly muscled as a Seeker should be, still golden from the summer tan he'd picked up during their month-long vacation at the shore; Draco traced the lines of demarcation where tan ebbed sharply to bathing-suit pale, and felt Harry shiver at the contact. "C'mon," Harry whispered, "please," and Draco wrapped his hand around the hard quivering cock, brushed his thumb over the weeping head, delighted by the way Harry moaned at the touch.

A moment later he was moaning himself, as Harry's hand found the root of his need and tugged, just firmly enough to be his own hand, seeking and finding a rhythm smoothly. Draco fell into the rhythm, stroking Harry in return, closing his eyes and arching back as the waves of pleasure settled into hard, throbbing need in his groin. Good, so good, so damned good, and he was... he was going to...

Harry whimpered and shuddered, and Draco felt the wet stickiness on his hand, and surrendered to his own need and let it happen; and so what if it was quick, it was still perfect.

They stroked each other through the ebbing spasms, keeping the same rhythm, and only when the pleasure had fully subsided did Draco take his hand away. Stretching past Harry to the bedside table, he fumbled with his wand and cast a quick cleansing charm on them both before letting himself collapse on top of the other man. Harry's arms rose languorously, caught him, held him close. "That was great," came to him in a breathless whisper.

"It gets better, you know," Draco informed him, conscious of the ragged quality of his own voice. "With practice. Lots and lots of practice."

Harry's breath tickled his ear as he chuckled. "Was hoping you'd say that." A soft, soft kiss on his cheek. "Mind if I sleep here?"

"Harry," Draco said, "you always sleep here," and Harry smiled.

* * * * * * *

Draco had been up for an hour and a half, reading the Sunday paper and basking in the warmth of the morning sunlight through the window, sipping tea and nibbling on buttered bread and sliced pears, by the time the Weasel came downstairs for his usual morning can of Coke. His eyes flickered up at the redhead, daring him to say a word; the Weasel gave him a funny sort of "who, me?" look, and Draco passed him the sports section.

A short while after that, Granger's light footsteps sounded on the stairs. Wrapped in her bathrobe, she gave him a sidelong look as she passed through the dining room on her way to make herself some tea; Draco gazed at her innocently, and set the living section aside for her.

As Granger was settling herself at the table with tea and crumpets and jam, a third set of footsteps resounded through the house. Draco glanced up from his paper. Freshly showered and shaved, damp hair deliciously touseled, wearing Draco's absolute favorite university sweatshirt over a pair of nicely-fitted jeans, and his eyes were alert and sparkling behind the lenses of his glasses. "Morning!" Harry said brightly.

The Weasel winked at Harry as he returned the greeting, and Granger's eyes were sharp and knowing as she smiled up at him. Draco willed himself to remain unaffected. "Good morning," he said with regal dignity, watching as the light in Harry's eyes dimmed. "Your coffee's ready to brew. Here, let me put it on for you," set the paper aside, rose from his seat, and moved toward the kitchen entryway, where Harry stood. Instead of brushing past him to the coffeemaker, however, he paused - slipped his arms around Harry's waist, drew him close, and kissed him long and deeply.

Granger made a sort of amused sound, and the Weasel snickered, but Draco cared only for Harry's arms, coming to rest around his own waist, holding him snugly. "Who needs coffee when I have you?" Harry murmured happily.

"Historic words," Draco declared, and kissed him again.

When the kiss ended, Harry rested his head on Draco's shoulder, seemingly content to simply rest in his embrace. "I borrowed your sweatshirt," he said softly, "'cause wearing it makes me feel closer to you. You don't mind, do you?"

"Mind?" Draco smiled. "No, I don't mind. Not at all."



* * * end * * *